Best Biddies Poems
My open-ended lines can convey more than one idea. Verse 3, middle line, ends in “I am.” I am both okay (today) & puddles on pavement.
whispering birds through wind and light rain
no drama of wildly flapping wings & lightning
sweetness in covered tones, under umbrella
mine is red and white, candy-striped, mint
moment at the beach, ebbed into tall mug
heat of cream & coffee steam my a.m. lens
just peachy in mid-May, Mother’s Day past
don’t have to pretend to be okay today, I am
puddles on pavement, swirls of mud and moss
sounds of Spring tympanic, tinkling & symbolic
dull day, verdancy not at all bright, nice chill
still those tweets invite a kiss of heart, mind, soul
louder tweets, grow, not as mad as thunder, tow
not of under, nor rip; chorus of natural sequence
and consequence, harmonious, non-disclosure
biddies somewhere are moving their beaks
cheeky in gossiping, speaking curses not kisses
only man intentions to kill, imagines the hearse
be sweet, as proverbial pie; as best homemade honey
don’t terrify anyone with a storm of marmite words
lightly flap your wings to visit the poor in your dreams
thoughts cohabitate with nature, change moment
to moment, pierced and pecked synchronization
not numbed out by a blinding sheet of buffeting sound
A determined chicken collector and her obliging spouse
Reside in a small town, inside a quaint sort-of HEN house
High upon a mountain top covered with melting snow
Displays of ceramic chickens, last count was ninety or so
A colorful brood of biddies, bantam silks and pompous hens
Perched on sills and everywhere between the Rhode Island Reds
The black cast-iron weather vane sits on the roof outside
The rooster that is welded on, quite a windy ride
A hoard arranged on counters, gently placed in rows
Silent as they cluck and strut in every kind of chicken pose
All styles and breeds imaginable from ceiling to the floor
Each room parades a show of cock-a-doodles galore
I’m not taking any chances when I wander through this coop
When chickens start cluckin’, ceramic feathers I’ll be pluckin’
While I’m cooking chicken soup
*Dedicated to my sister who collects ceramic chickens
I don’t have a drinking problem
I drink til I get drunk
Then I stumble home
Where I live all alone
And I diddle my own junk.
I don’t have a drinking problem
The problem is you see
When I am sober
I look the world over
And the world has a problem with me.
So I go to the neighborhood bar
Start with a whiskey and beer chaser
Every one of them that I belt down
Acts like a problem eraser.
All my troubles disappear
Then I fall off of the stool
I don’t see
What the problem can be
So, what’s the matter with you?
I don’t have a drinking problem
I drink til I get drunk
Then I stumble home
Where I live all alone
And I diddle my own junk.
I don’t have a drinking problem
The problem is you see
When I am sober
I look the world over
And the world has a problem with me.
So I go to the neighborhood bar
And put down a pint or ten
Soon all the old biddies there
Start looking beautiful again
I start flirting with the ladies
Must of’m older than me Mum
Then I pinch all the lasses
Upon their big asses
And get tossed out on me bum.
I don’t have a drinking problem
I drink til I get drunk
Then I stumble home
Where I live all alone
And I diddle my own junk.
I don’t have a drinking problem
The problem is you see
When I am sober
I look the world over
And the world has a problem with me.
So, I go to the neighborhood bar
Where I drink all day and night
My beer muscles start growing stronger
And I go looking for a fight
My slurred words start the trouble
My pushing eggs it on some more
I get punched in the eye
And in my reply
My face hits on the floor
I don’t have a drinking problem
I drink til I get drunk
Then I stumble home
Where I live all alone
And I diddle my own junk.
I don’t have a drinking problem
The problem is you see
When I am sober
I look the world over
And the world has a problem with me.
you gotta join in the struggle for the ill-gotten gains
of the movers and the shakers on the streets Wall and Main
we will take what we are due like the Sioux we'll count coup
on the heads of the masters and their double-talkin pastors
on the bankers and their chumps and the phonies on the stumps
on the bosses in their offas and the supers in the sweats
no more settlin for the scraps at the foot of the table
no more truck-wide income gaps ablin biddies to wear sable
at the time that we have won they will know that they are done
and we'll be sittin pretty like Scarface own the city
and the ones who called us chums they'll be fightin for our crumbs
wonderin how the heck that happened while they're suckin on their thumbs
(chorus)
first restitution
then redistribution
sweet retribution
if we don't stick together like those birds of a feather
we will never take our place on the seat of the throne
where who you want you can punish and the rest throw a bone
This poem was entered in Julia Ward's contest but I've decided not to write for her.
At the footbridge I pause for one last glance
at naysayers who never gave me a chance.
River rushes in a roar, stronger than my rage,
my anger uncontrolled like the aggression of old age.
I am leaving behind a life gone wrong.
No longer happy where I don't belong.
I have to cross the river to be rid of my woes
and escape the cruel biddies, those jealous foes.
A smile touches my lips once over the footbridge,
I stare longingly at the mountains beyond the ridge.
A deep breath taken, and then two more,
calming me while the river continues to roar.
Behind me shrill voices screaming my name.
I grow tired of hearing them taunt me with shame.
My rankling increases as they hurl stones.
I turn to curse them, those bitter old crones.
With two pointed fingers, an evil spell I cast.
At the footbridge, I watch them breathe their last.
7/18/2016
STILL LIFE - WITH FRUIT, DOILY AND BOTTLE
They spill!
Of her he’d had his fill
He tipped the table
Dumped!
Her oranges, apples, pears
Surprised the tea cup biddies -
Set them on their ears -
Then, with her priceless lacey cloth
Had wiped the floor of fruity froth
Hence he meant to finish the job
Attacked the bottle with a fork
Laughed, then pulled the noisy cork
The rooster led his harem forth
into the garden for a party
There they would dine from mother earth
Aphids on roses, worms they ate harty
Queen Ann's lace was laced with caterpillars
And rolly pollies ate Day Lilies' leaves
Biddies fed 'pon tiny grasshoppers
for summer was there to please
The Bee Balm and Fever Few had not been
touched by summer's butterfles; Rebecca
had yet to open her blooms; Daisies soon to begin.
Spring blossoms now nearly gone, summer the garden wrecker
The rooster, his hens and biddies loved the party
As among the flowers they pranced and ate smartly
Inspired by Cyndi MacMillan's contest not an entry...
SHE RAN AWAY WITH THE CIRCUS
The neighbor‘s daughter ran away
Gwen is gone .....her brothers say
When the circus left the town
She was nowhere to be found
I heard them whisper –all the biddies
While they tended little kiddies…
…..With the circus.....
Did you know it?
How that mousey girl could blow it!
Throw away her farm girl life
Plans to be a farm boy’s wife .
Who would want to see a city
Drink excitement with the witty--
Who would want to fly the coop
Jump the jump and hop the hoop?
Oh-- those biddies dream their nights
Of Gwen-stolen guy in tights
How he grabs that sly trapeze
Sails the tent with cat-stealth ease.
Me--I wish that girl the best
Hope she’s happy and the rest
Wish I had the guts to run
Find out what is west of sun
But I’d rather read about it
Let the others scream and shout it
When I think about her daring
I envy her for not despairing
May her dearest prayers come true
And her skies flash starlight blue
Hope the circus shapes her life
Wilder than a cardboard wife.
Victoria Anderson-Throop
09/13/2012
Little Buddy, Chick Daddy
Little buddy could cluck like a hen.
So, young biddies went running to him.
He would lift up his wings.
Come for warmth, he would sing.
Quickly chicks chirped, “Let chick-sitting begin!”
© Dane Ann Smith-Johnsen
February 22, 2010
Poetic form: Limerick
Charlie’s got an old bar outside of town.
It’s pretty seedy and plenty run down.
Characters who don’t lightly suffer fools
go there to drink whisky and to shoot pool.
Some huffy stuffy ladies from up-town
decided one day they’d shut Charlie’s down.
On a crusade, they made it their mission.
All ‘round town they paraded petitions.
Didn’t like the cartoon-graffitied walls
or the limericks written on the stalls.
They said Charlie’s scarred their town’s pretty face,
called it a blight on the whole human race.
Charlie and friends put their heads together.
They called in Ben, the college professor.
A curious plan began to unfold
as they recalled the legends they'd been told.
The prof walked around. He nodded and "aw"ed
read the walls, and he’d guffaw and applaud.
"Charlie," he said, "think I know what to do
to save our dear bar and make you rich, too!"
He said, “Good man, this place is a gold mine!
Thanks to Andy Warhol and Gertrude Stein!
Except for this 'Careen? Abdul Jabbar’—
Your walls have been graced by many a star!”
“Historical” says the placard outside.
Now, the uppity biddies point with pride.
It all worked out fine. Charlie's got his friends,
his whisky and pool, and plenty to spend.
11/29/2018
Charlie's Cartoon Characters Curiously Careen and Crusade Poetry Contest
Sponsor: Caren Kutsinger
~a first place
The foggy hollow reverberates
with rooster's echoes
Cackling hens sing a laying tune
Biddies for their true beau
Horizonal wispy white clouds
Lie upon the blue sky
Birds of the morn sing love's refrain
So in love you and I
The sun cast a lavender glow
Upon those wispy clouds
Like a cold morning in winter
When the birds don't sing loud
As the sun continues to rise
A fireball cut in half
Sending red sunbeams through the trees
Printing a lithograph
The radiant orange beach ball
Floats in the eastern sky
Bringing warmth like chicken soup
or the gleam in a man's eye
She dresses so young!
She should dress her age!
She looks ridiculous.
I scoff at these old biddies.
If any of them looked half as good
They would be dressed exactly like her.
She takes care of herself.
She exercises. She eats healthy.
She has a slim body, and her skin is impeccable.
This is where all the gossiping is coming from.
I roll my eyes at their jealousy.
She arrives, and they ooh and ahh over her.
Missus Claus had to trudge down to jail,
Once more toting with her Santa's bail;
Seems where people all shop
He let red trousers drop:
He enjoys showing biddies he's male.
Peonies and cannas are blooming along my walk
While birds are tweeting messages to one another,
I suspect the small animals are taking care of young
A newborn spring fawn stays close to its mother.
I am certain the newly built Robin’s nest has eggs
And I see the chimney swifts chasing insects on wing
The sounds of spring are delightful to my hearing,
Even the chimes on my neighbor’s front porch ring.
A fox is scoping out a flock of chickens scratching
The peace interrupted as a crow begins to squawk,
Signaling to the banties and biddies danger is near
I spy overhead the silhouette of a red-tailed hawk.
A simple life includes the sights and sounds of spring
The joys of a walk through the meadow in the sun,
Pleasures derived from a lifetime of love for nature
Anticipating good weather and a hot summer’s fun.
Written May 15, 2022
So I drove the van down a walking trail,
and slid into a ditch.
The Officers with voices hale
Began the walkers to regale
With "Oh, no, he won't go to jail!"
My van was tilt at such a pitch,
We had to call a wrecker in!
No doubt they thought it quite a stitch
To think that I had scratched an itch
And missed the road, preferred the ditch.
But we backed the van back up the walking trail
-- I have to ask, 'who was the snitch'? --
Who told the cops, all breathless, stale
That I was blocking up the trail
And underlined my epic fail!
So, I've near reached the end of my tragic tale.
I pity the fool who scratches an itch,
And ends up half under an old hay-bale
And causes old biddies and snitches to wail,
...NEVER drive down a walking trail!